Subject: Bootcamp (The Rewrite) 3/3
From: thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us (Dave/Kristin Hall)
Date: 1996/05/05
Message-Id:
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,alt.folklore.military
While I'm on the subject of food, I might as well bring up the subject of losing food. In other words, now is a good time to discuss the Navy's use of tear gas as a training aide. The idea is that a nice, healthy exposure to tear gas is an excellent manner in which to drive home two points to the recruits:
While I assure you that the Navy's use of tear gas does indeed accomplish both of these tasks, it is not done so without the normal dosage of sadism that accompanies everything in recruit life.
On the day of truth we spent our morning listening to a lecture on the hazards of chemical and biological warfare and the steps an individual sailor could take to protect himself. For the most part, the verdict was pretty much "you can kiss your sweet ass goodbye," but they did go out of their way to emphasize that your handy-dandy MK V gas mask provided excellent protection for most blood toxins (example: cyanide) as well as all the commonly used irritants (tear gases). The MK V by itself, however, would offer little to no protection from nerve agents (Typically, these are absorbed through the skin so breathing protection alone doesn't do you any good.) You can imagine what a warm fuzzy protected feeling it gave us when they next informed us that pretty much every military that used chemical warfare these days was outfitted with nerve agents. Joy.
But I'm not here to lecture you on military doctrine and the Navy's lack of quality NBC protective equipment. I'm here to tell you about 100 poor saps stuck inside of a room full of tear gas. And so I will.
After lunch, we were lined up in formation outside of a small white building that we had passed a hundred times but never had we known that this was THE place. Our sister company, company 186 (BTW, I've never actually said this previously so I'll say it now: We were company 185.) had beaten us here and were lined up in front of us. The front of the building had two standard sized doors on it separated by about ten feet. About ten feet to the right of the right door, was a large box about the size of a desk. Our CC left us alone and entered the door on the left. Seconds later another CC that we had never seen before emerged from the same door and gave us the low-down on what was to transpire.
We were to line up single file, grab a gas mask from the bin of masks, put the mask on, and continue inside the building. Once inside, we were to line up in formation using the "footprints" on the floor as a guide. The only exception to this was that staff, and staff only, was to line up in an abbreviated row that would be found in the front right hand side of the room. We would exit through another door on the back side of the building. If any man bolted for the door before given the OK, he would, of course, be required to go through the gas chamber again.
Company 186, being closer to the door, was given the honour of being the first in. The gas chamber could not, however, hold an entire company in it at one time so they entered in groups of approximately forty. As watched each man disappear into the building of doom we looked for any twitch, facial expression, or other indicator of what loomed before us. We could divine nothing. We could divine nothing that is, until the screaming started.
In time, my group was next and the thought filled me with .... and the thought filled me with .... and the thought filled me with .... Well, actually, I'm not entirely sure what the thought of going into that room filled me with. The testosterone crazed, macho son of a bitch was absolutely foaming at the mouth to see what was inside that room while the booksmart, sensible side of me wanted absolutely nothing to do with whatever evils lurked inside. Not that it mattered, of course, as the topic was not open for negotiation. I grabbed a MK V, put it on as the training video had instructed, and ambled through the door.
The interior of the gas chamber was, as one would imagine, stark. The walls and ceiling were wood, painted white. The floor was bare concrete with row upon row of black "footprints" painted on it. On the front wall was a large picture window to another room. In said other room stood Petty Officer Rozokat as well as a couple other CCs that I had never seen before. (I should at this time mention that my group, while the first group that contained company 185 personnel, did include approximately half a dozen men from company 186. These men had been instructed to stand in the row normally designated for company staff in an effort to keep the company membership of any given recruit clear.) The air appeared to be quite clean. This surprised me. I had expected to be able to see the gas as some sort of fog, like in the movies. But there was nothing to see. I had travelled perhaps three or four steps when it occurred to me that I was holding my breath.
I inhaled hesitantly. I smelled nothing. I inhaled again, this time fully. Still, I smelled nothing. Then it occurred to me: "Of course you don't smell anything you dipshit ... you're wearing a fecking gas mask!" Feeling suitably moronic, I took my place in the front row as instructed.
After everybody was inside one of the men inside the control room gave us further instructions. I will now paraphrase these orders to the best of my recollections:
"Gentlemen, before you leave this room you will all be expected to do a number of things. The first of these is to ensure that your gas mask is operating and that you are wearing it correctly. The fact that none of you appear to be in pain, tells me that you have already done this. Next, you will, one row at a time, take off your gas mask, hold it high above your head, and recite your ten general orders. And when I say 'high above your head,' I mean, 'HIGH above your head.' If anybody does not hold his mask up, nobody will leave this room. So if your row seems to be in here for an extraordinary amount of time, you might want to look around and see who the lame feck is who is holding you back. When everybody's mask is up and I'm satisfied that you know your ten general orders, you will be permitted to leave this room."
"Some of you may have adverse reactions to the gas. In other words, most of you are gonna puke your fecking brains out. Gentlemen, if you feel the need to vomit, you will do so into your white caps [for you civilians out there: sailor hats]. If I see anybody's lunch on the floor when you leave, believe me, you will all pay *dearly* for it."
His pep talk complete, the goon-in-charge then ordered staff to remove their gas masks. I reached for my gas mask. But then it occurred to me that while I was indeed staff, I was not standing in the normal "staff row." Did he honestly mean that staff was to take off their masks? Or did he mean that the people standing in staff row should take off their masks? I wasn't sure. I looked to Elias (the company Master at Arms) standing to my right for a second opinion. He was taking his off. The decision made, I closed my eyes and took my mask off.
Tenatively, I took a small, measured breath. The air had no scent, per se, but there was indeed a mild burning sensation in my sinuses. Nothing horrid. A lot like inhaling deeply over a plate of very hot and spicy (fill-in-your-favourite-"hot"-ethnic-dish-here). "BAH! This isn't so bad," I thought and opened up my eyes. Just as my nose burned slightly, so did my eyes. It was not unlike the burning in your eyes associated with suddenly turning the lights on in a previously dark room.
I took a deeper breath. The burning in my nose spread to my lungs. But still, it was nothing mythical. If you've ever experienced the burn in your lungs after a long hard run, you've experienced this type of burn.
Feeling cocky, I took a full blown deep breath. Bad fecking move. Instantly my entire chest cavity exploded into white hot pain. I wish I could adequately describe it, but I'm afraid it's one of those "If you haven't gone through it, you'd never understand it" type of pains. The closest approximation I can come up with would be pouring alcohol over the wounds of a man who just lost half of his skin in a motorcycle accident. Except that this was on the *inside*. At the same time, the pain in my eyes intensified a thousand fold. It transformed itself from a mild irritation into the sensation one would imagine belongs to a fistful of sand into wide open eyes.
In other words, it hurt. A lot.
I had not totally lost my senses, however, I remembered to hold my mask above my head. Then it hit me: Meadors (also staff but I don't remember what), to my left, was not holding his mask up. Through my tortured eyes I looked at him and realised that he was still wearing it. I looked to my right, past Elias, and saw that Moore (company RCPO) likewise was still wearing his. Elias and I had screwed the pooch. The only people in the room without masks besides he and I were the six or so stragglers from company 186 (Later I found out that the thoughts that had run through my head had also run through Elias's head. And just as I had turned to him for a second opinion, so too had he turned to me. The problem was that he had turned to me while I had been reaching for my mask. In short, we bluffed each other into taking our masks off several minutes earlier than we had to.). On the bright side, my stomach felt fine, so far.
There was nothing Elias and myself could do but sit and wait in seemingly eternal anguish until the guys from 186 managed to *scream* out their ten general orders. In between orders, I could hear (although not see from my angle) that at least one of these poor saps had lost his lunch. I would write down a bit of dialog here, but alas, I don't remember even one of those fecking orders. But I do remember hearing that poor sap trying to shout them out in-between convulsions. Eventually, mercifully, the CC released them and turned towards us (the "real" staff).
Once again, we were ordered to remove our masks (a moot point to me), but by this time something quite curious was making itself known to me. The effects of the tear gas were diminishing. That is to say, with a bit of concentration, the pain was quite manageable. That is to say that mind over matter really does work. That is to say, "Ladies, if you ever use tear gas on a prospective mugger, you've got about two to three minutes to get the feck out of Dodge City before you have one seriously *pissed off* criminal on your hands."
This presented a rather amusing situation to me. I was able to stand in (relative) comfort and watch the man next to me (Sean Meadors) go through that metamorphosis into pure pain that I had experienced. I saw his eyes practically explode into tears. I saw his face contort into a grimace of unspeakable pain. I saw his body begin to convulse in what I assumed to be his first salvo of gastric juices. Sadly, he held it down. But what he didn't do was maintain his cool. The second that he had regained control of his stomach he bolted for the door.
I don't know why I did it, but I bolted after him. Not to escape, mind you, but to stop him. For I, being well brainwashed at this point, was thinking "team." I knew that it would be best if he toughed it out in the chamber now, because to do so later would no doubt be that much harder a task. Fortunately, Meadors weighed about 120 pounds and stopping him was no more difficult than picking him up, throwing him over my shoulder (literally), and carrying him back to his spot in formation. Stopping Meadors did two things for me in bootcamp. The first was to secure later gratitude from a thankful-that-he-wasn't-going-to-go-back- in-THERE Sean Meadors. The second thing it did was establish my reputation as a psycho motherfecker. Most of the men were not unprotected in that room long enough to experience the immunity from the gas that I experienced and so they assumed that I had the presence of mind and pure willpower required to chase a man down through extreme pain. It was pred icted that my demise would entail myself gunning down a number of law enforcement officers while mortally wounded myself (There were other factors involved in that judgement, but none would be particularly interesting to the reader.). Given the circumstances, I took this as a compliment (and in some ways, still do).
Anyway, after shouting out our general orders, we (the company staff) were released to the plethora of fresh air waiting for us outside. But fear not, reader, the tasteless portion of this story has yet to come. As the remainder of the company filed out one row at a time, about every six or seventh man had vomited.
I'm ashamed to say that I was unable to witness this vomiting, but watching them gingerly carry their puke filled hats was a sight I shall always cherish. Keep in mind that we had just returned from lunch: every stomach had been topped off recently and as a result, if the hat had a drop, it had a quart. Furthermore, the hats, being nothing more than of cotton construction, were acting much as you would expect them to if they were filled with chunder. In other words, they were leaking all over the place. Actually, in the spirit of accuracy, I should say that the hats were leaking all over their owners. Each man for whom the gas had, shall we say, had it's way with, was left to scrape the chunks out of his white cap with his bare hands.
But this raised an interesting question: What should they do with their hats? After all, any recruit caught not wearing his cap while outside was truly fecked. But these hats had literally just been used as barf bags. Where they supposed to put these defiled things back on their heads? Nobody said a word, but then again, nobody put their caps back on either. That is until Petty Officer Rozokat emerged from the building. Orders were given, and slowly, grudgingly, the caps went back on. And on they stayed until the company returned to the barracks that night, by which time, if a man's stomach had been proved unworthy that day, said man absolutely reeked of spewage and his head was adorned with a crown of colourful, dried-on stomach lumps. A sight to awe any ATer, let me assure you.
As I mentioned previously, there are several ways in which a recruit can get himself out of the Navy. One is bedwetting. Another is sleepwalking. Still another is possessing a previous undiagnosed medical condition (bootcamp absolutely excels at exposing these). And still another is not knowing how to shit. Yes, you read that correctly. I did indeed put forth "not knowing how to shit." So am I saying that there exists such a man? You bet ....
But before I go into the details, let me back up a bit. As I've previously mentioned, the toilets were not in stalls. Every toilet was right out in the open for all to view. Translation: Every Joe-Bob in the company could watch your every grimace as you let loose your greasy black snake into the waiting depths below. Likewise, Joe-Bob could watch you technique as you wipe your ass. I mean, every swinging dick in the company knew if you were a folder or a scruncher and exactly how religious you were about having a clean bunghole. Now, let me ask you something: When you wipe your ass, how do you know when your ass is clean? Oh, don't bullshit me, you *look* at the paper to see if there are any skidmarks on it. If there are skidmarks, you continue, if there are no skidmarks, you declare yourself done. I know it and you know it. But have you ever had somebody watch you do it? Have you ever had another man/woman comment upon your latest gift to the septic tank? And what's more, have you ever done it to the extent that it was simply blasé'? Well, I'm sure you get my point. This environment certainly took some getting used to. Fortunately, I jumped into this situation with no hesitation and with both feet on that day I have previously refereed to as the "Shit-O-Rama." I had been so immersed in thought and desire about that first great shitfest that the strangeness (when compared to civilian life) of the setting was lost upon me until after the deed was done.
But it had not been lost on Harris. Harris had been so wierded out by the whole deal that he had been completely unable to shit that fateful day. Nor had he been able to shit on the next day. The following day bore him no toilet fruits either. And so it continued. But did Harris say anything? Hell no. He was too anal retentive (pun intended, of course) to mention this to *anybody*. As a result, he just kept getting bigger and meaner, so to speak. That is until he collapsed sometime during the sixth week of bootcamp. They sent him off in an ambulance and were left scratching our heads wondering what in the hell had happened.
A week later he returned to the company with doctor's orders stating that he was not to engage in heavy physical exertion and that we was to shit at least every other day. Needless to say we (CCs included) were a bit baffled by this until questioning revealed that his entire large intestine had been packed solid with shit. Surgery had been required to clean him out. Thus, the rational behind his orders became clear to all.
Everybody was pretty much amazed with Harris's ability to hold his shit. How he had managed the feat, we could not imagine. But as a result, every time he walked towards the head, we would encourage him with chants extolling the supreme virtues of his pucker. I have no idea how much our cheering contributed to what happened next, but I suspect it did have an effect ....
Harris stopped shitting again.
Unfortunately, nobody noticed. I mean, seriously, do you keep a diary documenting the anal offerings of your co-workers, roommates, spouses, et cetera? Well, neither did we. And so Harris began to fill up again right under our oblivious noses. Personally, I can not comprehend how he could do it *twice*, but he did.
He collapsed again with just over one week remaining in bootcamp. This time they sent him packing ... err ... unpacking ...err...sent him home.
Gee, now that I've mentioned the final week of bootcamp, I might as well tell the tail of our final inspection. I would imagine that you all have a pretty good idea of what one is like, but just in case, I'm going to spell it out to you anyway. Basically, final inspection goes something like this:
- You get all dolled up in your dress uniform
- As a company, you all march a predesignated routine.
- Upon completion of said routine, everybody stands at attention while CCs individually run you through the coals critiquing
everything from your uniform to your knowledge of your chain
of command and Naval doctrine.
If you take so much as one "hit," you fail the inspection. If you fail the inspection, you get held back and have to spend another week in bootcamp. As you can imagine, it was a very big deal. And yes, the inspection process includes the standard dose of sadistic bullshit that accompanies everything in bootcamp.
What? You want an example? OK, that seems fair enough. Let me tell you a tale or two of what went on during some of our preliminary (If memory serves, we went through three preliminary inspections before the final inspection, but alas, don't quote me on that.) inspections.
The first inspection: This inspection took place at something like 5:30 in the morning. Why did it take place so early? Well, at the time, I assumed it was just standard gung-ho military bullshit, but I was dead wrong. When that inspection was scheduled, the CCs knew *exactly* what they were doing. As you all know, at sunrise everything under the sun leaves a shadow a million miles long. "So what?" I hear you say, well, I'll tell you why it mattered. Shaving. That's why it mattered. If you missed so much as one little tiny fecking facial hair, it left an inch long black line across your face. Many of us where in complete disbelief when the CC hit us for an "unsatisfactory shave." The inspecting CC would then turn to the man next to us and ask him if he saw the offending telltale shadow, and he would have to admit that he did see it. I shit you not when I say that every man in the entire company got hit with that one. I suppose you could say that they burned us with th e ol' five o'clock shadow.
The second inspection: After the experience of the first inspection, we were all just a tad bit paranoid. We didn't want to get burned on something cheap as had happened during the first inspection. As a result, we were sweating everything. One thing we were worried about in particular, though was our white caps. I'm sure you all know how easy it is to get white cotton dirty and our caps were no exception. Despite being washed after every day of wear, many of them were stained with sweat, vomit (heh), or Glub knows what else. We washed them again and again in an effort to get them *clean*. Petty Officer Rozokat, seeing this, offered a solution. He told us not to worry too much about the hats. Yes, we should wash them to get the daily grime out, but if there were any small stains on them, he told us not to worry about them as he had a quick fix. His quick fix? Chalk. It turns out that an old Navy trick to whiten up such items right before an inspection was to cover up any small blemishes with plain ol' garden variety chalk. The idea sounded reasonable enough and so many recruits turned their attention to other inspectables.
The next morning, Rozokat arrived with chalk as promised. Actually, that sentence is misleading. Let me restate it.
The next morning, Rozokat arrived with chalk as promised: red chalk. Needless to say, as a company, we got hammered again. Fortunately, I had smelled a rat and covered up my cap's blemishes with Colegate (toothpaste) and thus, did not get hit.
BTW, the chalk trick is real. After bootcamp I would use it many times. Similarly, a fresh (read: applied immediately before the inspection) coat of gloss black spray paint works wonders on boots.
The third inspection: This one was to be more or less a dress rehearsal for the final inspection and just as we had with the other inspections, we busted our ass the night before. One thing we were told to watch out for was "Inspector No. 13" tags. You know them, those little tags you find in the pockets of new clothes. Well, if any of these tags were found in your pockets during an inspection, it was a hit. Rozokat ranted and raved about this. He made everybody search their pockets probably three or four times in an effort to ensure that we had found them all. But ever the untrusting bastard, he wanted *proof* that we had removed all such tags from our uniforms. His proof was simple: We were to present him with the tags we had found in our uniforms. If we didn't present him with at least three, he ordered us to check our pockets again (I found a total of five).
When we hit the rack that night, everybody's uniforms were hanging all nice, neat, inspection prepared and ready to wear the next morning. But once again, there was a rat. While we went to breakfast wearing our normal working uniforms (You wouldn't want to spill food on your inspection uniform would you?), that rat feck son of a bitch Rozokat went back and put two or three tags in the pockets of everybody's uniform.
To be fair, he did tell everybody to check their pockets right before the inspection, but after checking them four or five times the night before, many individuals did not check.... Fortunately, I did. My heart skipped a beat or two. At the time, I didn't say anything to anybody else at the time because I just assumed that I had been a dumbass the night before and didn't want to look like a 'tard. It wasn't until days later that some of us started comparing notes and realised that we had *all* either found a tag in our pocket or been hit during the inspection.
After the mashing was all over, Rozokat flaunted it in front of our faces saying that if he told us to check our pockets, then by God, we had best fecking check our pockets.
And so, I'm sure you can see why we were a bit nervous going into the final inspection. Not only would success rely upon our mastering of all the trivial bullshit that the Navy cares about, but it would also hinge upon whether or not we could spot Rozokat's trap-o-the-day *before* it was too late.
The night before the final inspection we checked our shit and drilled each other over and over and over again. The next morning, after returning from breakfast, we checked our uniforms two more times. And yet, we had found no trap. Many of us began to sweat. We *knew* that rat fecker Rozokat would try to feck us, but didn't know how. And the inspection was less than thirty minutes away. Time was running out.
The moment of truth arrived to find us still clueless as to whatever treachery lay before us. We swallowed hard and marched forward into certain doom, terrified to the man.
The drill (read: marching) portion of the exam went smoothly enough and we knew it. But then again, that wasn't the part that had us worried. The uniform inspection still lay ahead.
They lined us up in formation and started the inspection. Those who happened to be roughly in the middle of the company (myself included) ended up getting plenty of time to stew in our fear. As the inspectors moved through the ranks (one in front, one in the rear) we wondered how things were going. We mentally ran through our preparation over and over looking for something we missed. But mostly, we just stewed in our knowledge that we had been unable to find the trap in time.
I think at this time I should say a few words about stress and how different people handle it in different ways. I mean, we all act a bit differently when under intense psychological pressure. Some people become restless. Some people sink into depression. And some people become giddy. This is not to say that these are the only reactions to stress. No, far from it. Why, some people even throw up.
At least I got some warning. About two minutes into the uniform inspection the man to my right, Baldwin began making strange noises. The noises were familiar to anybody who has ever had a run-in with tequila. They were the noises of a man about to hurl. I watched him closely through the corner of my eye. I could see that he was loosing the battle. I cringed.
The first spewage really wasn't a bad at all. It looked to be no more than an ounce or two, but it ran down his chin and all over his uniform. To his credit, he remained at attention. The second was no worse than the first where volume was concerned, but it shot out of his mouth a bit faster, landing in the blank area between ranks. But the third spewage was truly worthy of note. Our hero, still standing at attention (as was everyone surrounding him) let loose a blast that would make Linda Blair envious. It was milky white and full of chunks. More importantly though was the fact that it had exceeded that critical velocity required to carry it beyond the blank area and into the next row of men. It hit the man in front of Baldwin squarely behind his knees. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing.
But the worst was yet to come. At this point, Baldwin abandoned all attempts to stay in formation and doubled over to scream his blessings at the pavement in classic style. He launched his load straight at the pavement where it fragmented into a thousand shining white droplets flying in a thousand different directions. Not a few of which were headed my way. I felt the chunks hit my leg, but ever conscious of where I was, I dared not move a muscle. I could feel my pant legs in their wetness sticking to my leg. I could feel a chunk or two fall from my shin and land on my feet. In short, I could feel it all. And yet still I stood at attention while wave after heaving wave emerged from Baldwin's mouth, splattered on the ground, and added to the high sheen on my freshly polished shoes.
Finally somebody to the right of Baldwin broke ranks and jumped back yelling some expletive or another. "Congratulations, feckwad, we just failed the inspection," I thought and I mentally ran through the list of tortures the unseen asshole deserved. As you may imagine, the blatant breaking of ranks attracted the attention of one of the inspecting Company Commanders. It was obvious that he was furious at this breakdown of discipline. That is, he was furious until he saw Baldwin finishing up his final fountain and realised what had transpired.
(CC) "Jesus Christ! Why the feck didn't you guys move?"
(Me) "Because we were told to stand at attention for inspection, SIR!"
(CC) "Yeah ... but ... feck! ...What do you think we are, monsters?"
(Me) *silence*
(CC) *laugh* "Well, just to prove to you that I am human, anybody who has puke on him just passed the inspection and may go inside and clean up."
Needless to say, I wasted no time. I got the feck out of Dodge City (as did everybody else who got sprayed) before the CC could change his mind.
Oh, by the way, Rozokat for once had played it straight. There had been no traps.
One thing I have failed to mention up until this point is the "Sweetheart Board." The Sweetheart Board, as it's name implies was a bulletin board in the office that contained nothing more than pictures of every man's sweetie back home. EVERYBODY was required to post a picture, even myself despite my protests that I did not have a significant other on the outside world (I eventually relented and had my mother send me a picture of "a girl, *ANY* girl" so that I could post it and get them off my back.). Anyway, there was one picture on that board that had everybody creaming their jeans. She was hot. I mean, I don't care if Kristin (my wife) was watching me and was dead set against the idea, if this girl wanted me, I would *have* to feck her. And pretty much everybody had a similar opinion of her.
But nobody knew who's SO she was. Nobody would fess up to claiming her. 'Twere strange, indeed. So one night, just before lights out, Elias and I were discussing the topic and we decided to take the picture down to see if there was anything written on the back. There was.
"Dear Rod, Thanks for being such a good friend all these years."
Needless to say, we about died laughing. What we obviously had on our hands was a case very similar to mine. Somebody had put this picture up under false pretences (I had all but made a public announcement that I didn't even know the first name of "my" girl.). But who was Rod? In the military, everybody goes by their last names. I didn't even know the first name of my best friend (more on that later). But as company yeoman, I did have access to the goods (read: every man's full name). There was only one man in the entire company who could make a claim to being Rod. Rodney Novak.
Rodney Novak was, for those of you who have seen the movie "Full Metal Jacket," our own Private Pyle. Well, actually, that's a bit unfair. Gallagher was our Private Pyle, but in Gallagher's absence, Novak made a decent substitute. He was overweight, out of shape, a clutz, had the brains of a gerbil, and was a far cry from good-looking. In other words, the guy was hardly a prime specimen no matter what attributes you judge men by.
Of course, Elias and I *had* to call him on his bluff. Not that it was a big deal, of course, but hey, we were in bootcamp and we had to get our entertainment where we could. We called Novak into the office with some excuse or another...
(Elias) *pointing to the picture* "I this your girlfriend?"
(Novak) *sheepishly* "Yeah."
(Me) "Come off it, Rod. It says 'Thanks for being a friend' on the back!"
(Novak) "She gave that to me before we started dating."
(Elias/Me) *laugh*
(Elias) "Sure, I believe ya."
(Me) *to Elias* "Hey, my sister went to high school with a bona fide Playboy Playmate. Maybe I should put her picture up?" [Rebecca Armstrong, 9/86. Now with full blown AIDS. I only knew her brother (who became very popular almost overnight) ... for those of you who are curious.]
(Elias/Me) *laugh*
(Novak) "No, really. She is my fiancée."
(Elias) "OK, whatever."
No, none of this was particularly funny. It was, in retrospect, more than a tad bit cruel. As I said, we were in bootcamp. But I told you this so that I, in the spirit of Paul Harvey, can now tell you, (*dramatic voice*) The Rest Of The Story.
The night before Pass and Review (Graduation) there is what is known as USO Night. USO Night basically is a 2 hour chance for your friends and relatives to see you for the first time in however long you've been in bootcamp (I think it was 11 weeks, but don't quote me on that). I do not know why, but the Navy deems it necessary for all guests (ie, friends and family) to register who they are and who they are here to see. Obviously, this requires some sort of check in desk. And who better to man such check in desks doing such boring work than a recruit or two? Translation: I was sitting at the desk that night.
I recognised her from well over a hundred feet away. She had come all the way from Iowa to see her fiancée (she checked in with me personally and the "F" word was indeed the word she used to describe her relationship with Recruit R. Novak.). If ever there was a time in my life when I thought that Glub put us on this Earth for the sheer purpose of having someone to torment, it was that moment.
Rodney Novak, wherever you are, you are one lucky son of a bitch!
I realise that somewhere in the preceding thousand or so lines I promised to tell you of my own personal ambulance ride. I have tried to pen the story, but alas, it does not translate well into the written word. In some ways, I would rather just leave it out, but I will try to give you the basics of it here simply because I promised to do so.
As with many of the anecdotes I have listed previously, this one deserves a bit of background. After about two weeks in bootcamp, I was sick. We all were, but not because there was any one illness going around. There wasn't. Rather, there were about half a dozen illnesses going around. None of them were serious. In fact, all of them could be classified as colds. The problem was, Joe-Bob brought in the present strain of cold from New England. Meanwhile, Billy-Bob brought to the company a strain from the Pacific Northwest. And similarly, Jim-Bob decided that bootcamp just wouldn't be complete without a healthy showing from the current strain from down South. Are you getting the picture yet?
So there you had it, everyone of us had a combination of minor illnesses. Any one illness probably wouldn't have brought itself to our attention, but the combination was nasty. Lung butter was produced en mass.
Most of the company got over what we refereed to as the "Recruit Crud" rather quickly. I did not. I don't know what you would call it, but I ended up with the following symptoms: chest congestion, headaches, stomach cramps, liquishits, and last but not least, nose bleeds. As each day passed, each one got worse.
This continued for about a week and a half until one night when it really nailed me to the fecking wall. My memories of that night are more than a bit hazy so if you spot any contradictions, it's probably my memory, not my writing style.
It was the night before our first barracks inspection and the whole company was cleaning everything in sight. That is, the whole company except for me. I felt like hammered on dogshit and frankly didn't give a rat feck about the inspection. I just hid underneath my desk (It wouldn't do to be seen sitting down while everybody else was working!) wrapped in a blanket shivering uncontrollably in-between fits of coughing up blood. Not a lot of blood, mind you, just enough to turn the saliva/lung butter a nice bright pink. I sat this way for perhaps two or three hours before Rozokat noticed me.
(Rozokat) "Hall, what in the hell are you doing down there?"
(Me) "Sitting, sir ...."
(Rozokat) "Is there any particular reas-" (Me) *cough up a nice chunk of blood encrusted snot*
(Rozokat) "Christ, another one."
Five minutes later I was in the ambulance with two other sickees from the company (It turns out Rozokat had come into the office to summon the meat wagon for the other two when he found me.). It was strange, I was halfway excited for a chance to see the outside world even if it was only going to be the inside of a military hospital. The other half of me still felt like I'd just been beaten to a pulp by Mike Tyson, however.
In the end, it was pretty uneventful. They took me in, took my temperature (104.1F btw), made me strip and lie down on what I swear to Glub must have been a refrigerated stainless steel table, gave me some shots/pills and sent me back to the barracks with a "24 hours bedrest" certificate.
I did feel *much* better in the coming days. The headaches, cramps, liquishits and nose bleeds were gone before my 24 hours were up. But the coughing up of blood lasted for another six to eight days.
Amazing as it seem, I consider bootcamp the easiest part of my Naval Career. Actual shipboard life, while much less tasteless, was much worse. The food was rotten (sometimes quite literally). The work was harder. The hours were longer. The (trustworthy) friends were fewer.
Oh, and remember the punk-rocker freak from the first day of bootcamp? It wasn't until after pass and review, but I learned that my best friend in bootcamp was in fact, said freak. Never judge a book ...